RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (54 page)

Lakshman glanced at him curiously. They were not supposed to lead or guide the horse, merely to follow it. But Sumantra already knew that better than he: he had presided over the Ashwamedha yagnas performed by Lakshman’s own father Dasaratha decades ago. What did this odd instruction from Bhadra mean? 

“Encouraged…?” Lakshman asked, nonplussed. 

Sumantra nodded, his ragged white eyebrows almost concealing his dark brown eyes, but said nothing further. 

Lakshman glanced back at the stallion. The animal took hold of a fresh clump of green kusa grass with his teeth, yanking it out slowly, then threw his head back and began munching on it happily. Frothy cud dripped from the sides of his mouth. He looked like he could stay there in that little patch of meadow beside the crossroads all day long. His tail twitched rhythmically, shooing off a swarm of midges and mites. 

Lakshman considered the location where the stallion had chosen to partake of its impromptu repast. If the animal were to go eastwards as the raj-marg itself led, it would end up in Videha territory, the sister nation to Kosala. That would mean a direct challenge to Mithila, sister city of Ayodhya, seat of the moonwood throne of the Chandravanshi dynasty and ancient ally to Ayodhya, seat of the sunwood throne of the Suryavansha dynasty. Maharaja Janak of Mithila was the very opposite of an aggressive king; he had disbanded his army years ago, employing only a reserve guard and relying on a citizen’s militia that adored their liege and his kind paternal regime so fiercely that they acted as a better deterrent than any salaried army. Not a soul in the Videha nation would raise so much as a finger of aggression against Ayodhya, or attempt to captivate the sacred stallion on its ritual course; but in the unlikely event that there were to be an incident on Videha land, it would lead to terrible, undesirable consequences. Maharaja Janaka was not merely the kindest, most spiritually enlightened and humanitarian Arya king in all Aryavarta, he was also Lakshman’s and his brothers’ father-in-law, for all four sons of Dasaratha were married to Janak’s daughters or adoptive daughters. 

Including my banished sister-in-law,
he thought with a twinge of sadness even after all these years. 

For the stallion to tread on Videha land, or so much as turn its head toward Mithila, could well bode disaster. 

On the other hand, were the beast to head south and west, it would then pass through the great Naimisha-van forest, bordering the great central aranya—the Arya term for uncivilized and unsettled wilderness – and would transgress no borders or boundaries. 

Lakshman knew the old pradhan mantri well enough to understand when he was attempting to communicate much more than he was able to say aloud. Sumantra was telling him that Bhadra—and no doubt the rest of the War Council—
wanted
the horse to stray into friendly territory, to provoke an incident and justify annexure. It was a heart-stopping thought but, he realized with a sinking heart, also the logical corollary of the yagna itself. The Ashwamedha yagna was not conducted merely to remind existing vassals of the king’s dominance; it was intended as a campaign of expansion and consolidation. His heart raced as he considered the horror of invoking outright war with his wife’s homeland. Unthinkable! Yet not for Bhadra, Jabali and those other war-mongers. He had heard them speak lasciviously of Videha’s considerable wealth as well as its lack of a standing armed force. Clearly, this was the first phase of their plans of empirical ‘expansion’. If they could give instructions for the horse to be ‘encouraged’ into Videha lands, they could as easily arrange for a few mercenaries to captivate the horse and justify Ayodhya’s declaration of war against the Videha nation for that transgression. In the horror that followed, it would hardly matter whether or not the men who stopped the horse had been Videha citizens or Kosala citizens or neither—their dead bodies would be all the evidence needed to inflame Videha’s passions and cause their citizen militia to take up arms in their own defense. 

On the other hand, if a horse could be encouraged to go in one direction, it could as easily be encouraged to go in another. 

Lakshman smiled. 

He glanced at Sumantra who looked at him with interest. Lakshman knew that the old statesmen was sharp enough to have followed a similar line of thought, even if he might not see Lakshman’s solution to the problem. But Sumantra said nothing. 

In turn, Lakshman himself dared not speak his thoughts aloud: he knew the efficacacy of Rama’s spasas too well to risk being caught saying the wrong thing himself. As the Enforcer of the law, it would not do for him to be caught subverting the imperial diktat. And Bhadra’s word was no less than Rama’s word. 

Lakshman unslung his bow, put an arrow to the string and aimed at a rotting tree trunk lying at the edge of a thicket. It was just beyond the patch where the stallion grazed, the line of fire passing just behind the sacred horse itself. With a single motion, he loosed the arrow, sending it flying just behind the rump of the sacred stallion. The horse was never in danger: Lakshman was a master bowman. The arrow missed the beast by a clear inch or three, passing through the small cloud of midges around the stallion’s rear, but the wind and violence of its passing were enough for the sensitive creature to instantly lurch forward, its grazing forgotten. 

A clump of half-chewed kusa grass fell from its open jaws as it neighed softly in dismay, then, with the inevitable skittishness of the equine species, it neighed twice more, sidling sideways nervously, then picked up its heels in a brisk trot, heading in a south-westerly direction. Precisely the opposite direction from the arrow that had grazed its rump. Towards the great central aranya of Naimisha-van and the Southwoods that lay beside and below it. No-man’s land. And certainly, no king’s. 

Lakshman looked back at Sumantra. The old minister smiled approvingly, then dropped one bushy-browed lid in a loud wink. 

Lakshman winked back, then rode on after the horse, into the woods. 

Ayodhya followed. 

THREE

Nakhudi and Bejoo made their way carefully through the woods on horseback, Nakhudi leading the way as she knew these forests and he did not. That is to say, he knew the paths and the raj-marg well enough, but they had left those behind a long way back. They were now in uncharted terrain and if not for Nakhudi, Bejoo had no doubt that he and his band could be wandering in these woods for weeks without being able to find their way. 

Bejoo glanced back from time to time at the riders following them. The forest floor was littered with leaves that had been dampened by a shower or two that morning and the mulch formed a carpet that muffled their hoofbeats. Apart from the occasional snicker or whinny of a horse, there was almost no sound to indicate that almost a hundred men were making their way through the woods on horseback. Had they been young brash recruits like the ones he had commanded on that last grama-train, he had no doubt they would be drinking and laughing and bantering loudly enough to wake up the entire forest for miles around and alert anyone who might be ahead that they were coming. 

But these were Purana Wafadars in truth, not merely in name like those new upstarts who wore the purple-and-black without having earned the colours. Every single man here was known personally to Bejoo, several older than he, veterans of war before he was so much as a suckling babe on his Maatr’s arm. All had seen battle numerous times and suffered injuries ranging from grevious to maiming, forcing them to retire from active duty and enter the PF regiments. Many had had the pleasure of serving directly under Saprem Senapati Dheeraj Kumar during the heydey of the PFs. Now, Dheeraj Kumar was long gone, en route to his ancestors, and it was his son Drishti Kumar who was now Saprem Senapati, two of his grandsons Captains of the King’s Guard, a grand-daughter a Captain of the Queen’s Guard, and numerous other grandsons and grand-daughters serving their nation in other martial capacities. At least three men in the group following Bejoo now had served under Maharaja Dasaratha himself in the Last Asura Wars, which made them old enough to be Bejoo’s grandfather. 

He knew one closely: old veteran Somasra had not had much to do with his days since being retired from his charge as gate keeper of the First Gate, no less, and Bejoo’s duties as grama-rakshak had involved much downtime between trips. They had both spent many pleasant hours together faffing over mugs of various beverages. When he had gone to Somasra and asked him if he wanted an opportunity to do more than just faff, the old veteran had glanced at him without a word, risen to his feet, grunting briefly as he wrested something wrapped in an old dust-layered length of cloth off a high shelf, then unwrapped it slowly and carefully to reveal a pike of a design Bejoo had never seen before. The seal of the Suryavansha Ikshwakus was unmistakeable, melded into the base of the pole, and Somasra had flipped the weapon over with an expert, heart-stopping ease to show it to him. 

Bejoo had raised his eyebrows in response, knowing a royal prize when he saw one, knowing also that such prizes had been handed out last by Maharaja Dasaratha during the Last Asura Wars and then only to those who distinguished themselves in battle. He felt his throat thicken as he realized what that meant. If there was a higher honour for any kshatriya serving in Ayodhya’s armed forces now or in the past three quarters of a century, he did not know of it. 

He glanced back and saw Somasra two men behind him and to his right at a diagonal. The old gatekeeper dipped his grizzled jaw at him, and Bejoo nodded back. He made out the long length of the pike rising behind the man, sheathed behind the old PFs saddle and ready for use. He wondered if he would get to see Somasra use the weapon and hoped not. 

In fact, he hoped this entire exercise would pass off peacably. The intention was to prevent violence, not to perpetrate it. 

After what seemed to be another yojana or so of slow maneuvering through thickly growing woods—it was difficult to judge how far one had travelled in such deep forest—Nakhudi finally held up her hand. Bejoo imitated her gesture, glancing back to make sure the others had seen his action. They had already reined in their mounts. He felt a flicker of pride. Ayodhya’s veterans were still sharp of eye and clear of mind and undoubtedly wise. Almost as a counterpoint he thought: If only her youth were even half as wise. He knew that the exercise they were about to undertake might well save lives; but he also knew that if things turned bad, these hundred lives and his own would be the least of the fatalities in the days to come. 

Nakhudi beckoned him forward. Since she had dismounted, he dismounted as well and walked his horse to where she waited. He looked over her shoulder but could see nothing ahead but endless rows of trees and shrubbery, identical to the yojanas of forest they had travelled through already. 

“Something is wrong,” she said. “There is someone in the camp.”

“Someone?” he asked, puzzled. “What do you mean, someone?”

She glanced at him with a look of unmasked irritation. “If I knew, I would have said who it was, wouldn’t I?”

He bit his lip. It had been a long time since a woman had snapped at him. It reminded him of his long-dead wife, died in a fever epidemic almost fifteen years ago. She had been the only woman to roundly berate him on a regular basis, especially when he demonstrated one of his habitual flaws, of which, he had to admit, he had several. It had been how she expressed her love for him mingled with the exasperation of a very long marital relationship—they had been together over fifty years when she died. 

He said nothing, waiting for Nakhudi to go on. 

When she spoke again, she sounded gruffly contrite. “I didn’t mean to cut your throat. I just don’t like this whole situation. There is too much at stake. I care about these people. They are the only family, clan, nation, call them what you will, that I have left.”

“Grama,” he said. 

She looked at him. 

“Grama,” he explained. “The original grouping of families linked by blood, marriage and comradeship. They travelled from place to place, living off the land, joining together to fend for themselves and one another. An extended family. It was the basis of early Arya society. The gramas went travelling across such vast distances, to this date, nobody knows for certain where they started from. The poets argue even now if they originated here in Bharata-varsha and then later migrated North-Westwards, or originated in those far Northern lands and then travelled here.”

She looked taken aback at this unsolicited information, raising her eyebrows. “Were there arrowposts?”

He frowned. “Arrowposts?”

“Arrows, shot into tree trunks by the roadside to show which way to go next, an old traveler’s trick to help those following stay on the trail.”

“I don’t understand.”

She waved in exasperation. “The poets can argue all they want. As far as I know, unless someone posted arrows directing everyone to go only this way or that, people go where they please when they please. In my culture, we don’t call that migration, we call it wandering the land in search of greener pastures.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Interesting. But—”

She held up one large dark palm and for a moment he thought she was about to smack him in the mouth. “Do you mind? We can debate itihasa later. Right now, I wish to make sure my people are all safe and well.” She paused. “My grama, as you so eloquently put it. I shall go ahead through there,” she pointed, “and I need you to split the group into two and circle around through there and there,” pointing twice more, “and then wait for my wolf-whistle before showing yourselves. Clear?”

He nodded. She flashed a dark grin at him and slipped away, moving with surprising ease and stealth for a woman her size. He wondered again how much of that considerable height and bulk was muscle and sinew, and how much…well, womanly splendor would be the polite term. 

He thought he might not mind having a chance to find out.

***

The strangers did not appear slashing swords and loosing arrows as Luv had feared. That itself was something of a shock. 

When Kush had called him back to alert the pack and he to the arrival of strangers, he had assumed it was one of those nauseating bear killer gangs come around these parts again. He intensely disliked those people and could not understand for the life of him why Maharishi Valmiki permitted them to visit. Somehow, gurudev always seemed tense and uncomfortable when they were around, but after they left, his mood lightened considerably and he would even display a rare smile at times.

 Once, when Rishi Dumma, who was prone to opening his mouth before he had thought his words through, had commented archly, “Mlechhas!” as the bearkillers left the camp, grinning lewdly and speaking raucously in the vulgar way they had. Several of the other rishis had sniffed in agreement and even the brahmacharyas had bobbed their bald heads, their little chchottis wagging. 

Even the twins knew the word was the most derogatory one any Arya could use, meaning barbarians or uncivilized people. And if Dumma was justified in using it to describe anyone, the bearkillers certainly qualified. But to their surprise, and everyone else’s, Maharishi Valmiki had swatted Dumma lightly across his shoulder, and said gruffly, “There but for the grace of Brahma, go you and I.” Then he walked away, retiring to his hut. But he had been in an exceptionally good mood for days afterwards and had even given the twins a holiday from their kavya practise.  

Nobody quite knew what to make of that comment. Did Maharishi Valmiki mean that anyone might become a bearkiller? That was impossible! Why would a brahmin, sworn to a life of yogic ritual fasting, penance, meditation and the pursuit of learning, suddenly take up the tools of violence and start killing the innocent animals of the forest? Brahmins had no use for earning, and were content to beg for their needs if unable to provide for themselves – or to starve. In any case, their calling exhalted fasting and starvation. And even if they changed varnas, as some brahmins did, to take up tradecraft or statecraft or even the use of weapons, surely they would pursue more honourable occupations than merely animal slaughter? It was unfathomable. Yet nobody dared question the guru or even discuss the matter behind his back. So, after several perplexed looks were cast around by all present, the ashramites returned to their respective chores – there were always chores to be done in an ashram – and thought no more of it. 

But Kush and Luv had never forgotten that day or that statement, and had known instinctively that it had a deeper significance than anyone else realized. 

Now, he saw the first of the strangers come into view even as the dogs flew into a frenzy, leaping and jumping and rolling in the air with the foamy jaws and gaping snarls of a pack ready to fight to the death if need be. And with a grim heart, he saw that they were indeed bearkillers. Those ragged clothes, stained deeply crimson-black with the blood of countless slaughtered animals, those rusting axes and long barbed-point spears they favoured, and those filthy faces with broken yellow teeth flashing in grinning mouths, the plaited hair plastered with tree sap in a mockery of Shaivite tapasvi sadhus…yes, they were bearkillers, all right. Luv even recognized a face or two as having been part of that same troupe that had visited the ashram some moons earlier, especially that one, a tall lanky man with a horribly scarred face but surprisingly clean and perfect teeth that flashed brightly against his dark face. He plaited his hair in a particular way that reminded Luv of a procession of Tantric Sadhus he had seen once, passing by as Kush and he waited for a grama-train. The man had seemed to be the leader of the bearkillers, from his bearing and manner on their last visit. It was he who had gone in with gurudev into his hut for a private talk – although what Maharishi Valmiki and a bearkiller could have to talk about, nobody in the ashram could guess at, not even Rishi Dumma who was usually quite adept at coming up with outlandish explanations for anything under the sun that he didn’t understand. 

Luv kept his arrow pointed at that ugly face, tightening his draw, ready to drop the man on the spot. The dogs were going crazy and he had no doubt they could take give as good as they got, but he knew that men who were capable of hunting and slaying bears were not likely to be brought down easily by a mere pack of wild dogs. And he would not stand by and let his friends be chopped down brutally by these…these Mlecchas!

He sensed Kush coming to the same conclusion and tightening his draw as well. He also knew that Kush was aiming at the other man, the one to the right of the scarfaced one. That was one of the gifts Kush and he had always possessed, the ability to instinctively know what the other would be thinking, saying or even doing at any point in time. Even taking into account the usual conjoined consciousness of twins—the typical explanation everyone used to explain away their extraordinary feats of coordination—what they had was beyond explanation. 

The splitting of targets was a much simpler trick: the scarfaced bearkiller was on the left, as was Luv while the other man was on the right, as was Kush. Even without looking back at Kush’s position, Luv could map his possible lines of fire mentally, just as Kush could map his own lines of fire. It just made more sense to split the targets in that manner. As more targets came into view and the choices grew more complex, the decisions to split them grew more complex as well, but they were still based on the time-honoured practise of lines of fire that Arya bowmen had been trained to work with since deva knew how many millennia. 

He was itching to loose and put an arrow through that grotesquely mauled scarred face. Just raise your axe to one of Sarama’s brood, he thought, and it will be the last time you raise that hand!